Jeremy McKnight on Unsplash

Smiling through tears, a shape-shifting delight,
she mumbles her prayers, turns out the light.
Her dreams are protected, by what she believes,
with the rising at dawn, and the turning of leaves.

Artists paint her aura a deep periwinkle blue,
musicians litter their scores with minor chords
dedicated to her too: in crying songs,
distant laments and auras of night
she's alright.

The scent of patchouli surrounds her
sleeping sprite. Poets seek  the sadnesses of love,
but she remains an ambient presence, it's true:
as mourning doves coo and nightingales trill
and the girl in the story is never-even ill.

Now she twirls her hair
sings songs  to herself,
mumbles a passing prayer,
and hardly believes
that she’s already there - 
aware. 

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